


A Monumental Decision

by betagyre



Series: Three Blocks South [3]
Category: The American President (1995)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/betagyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney contemplates an unresolved concern about her relationship and future, because she knows she needs to decide how she feels about the issue very soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Monumental Decision

**Author's Note:**

> This piece occurs in my headcanon universe with my other two pieces. It takes place before anything in "Three Blocks South."

Sydney used to be able to walk to the Washington Monument in peace when she visited DC. No one usually would stop her except for the occasional tourist seeking directions to something.

 _Those days are gone now,_ she thought, sighing. She curled against Andy and withheld another sigh to avoid drawing his attention—or, worse, concern. She did not want him to notice that she was anything less than perfectly blissful. Not right now. She didn’t want to explain, because explaining this would make him feel bad. She needed to settle her thoughts herself.

At the moment, it was a good thing that his gaze was fixed upon the paper in his hand. He was good at multitasking. He had to be, and she was far too aware of reality to be offended by the fact that he was reading a heavy policy document while he cuddled her on the sofa. She knew she could not just have _him,_ the person. She had to take the man and his… situation. She had known from the start that the circumstances were part and parcel of it, and finally, he had accepted the truth too.

_No roses from a florist as if he were just another customer. They have to be from the White House Rose Garden._

It was the reality for them.

 _For now,_ her mind supplied absently. She quickly tried to banish the thought. He had _better_ be re-elected. The nation could not afford Bob Rumson as Chief Executive. _But still, four years. Then…._

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? At least, that was the question that Sydney kept asking herself as she anticipated _his_ capital-Q Question. She knew it was coming someday soon. Maybe it was women’s intuition, or maybe he wasn’t as good at giving her surprises as he used to be, now that she knew him so well. He was too preoccupied and thoughtful lately for it not to be about that, since nothing in his job could account for the change. She knew how it would be. It would not be a casual introduction of the topic into general conversation, something that they gradually came to accept without ever having a specific date to remember as the time they officially settled it. He was going to ask the Question, old-school romantic that he was. It would probably be _in_ the Rose Garden, knowing him. And when he did ask the Question, she did not want to have anything to mar the moment—no hesitant words, no uncertain looks, and certainly nothing to suggest that she was not happy. She _was_ happy.

She knew exactly what her answer would be, and it was not a matter of pragmatism or fatalism. It was not the realization that if she said no, her reputation would be permanently destroyed, and that her blasted boss— _former_ boss—was correct from the start in that this relationship had to go all the way or she would be a joke in political circles for the rest of her career. No, those things might be _true,_ but that had no effect on what she was going to say. She would still take that outcome rather than have a relationship—or a marriage—with someone she could not love and trust, or who did not love her. She had been prepared to do that very thing _that day,_ until he reassured her in such spectacular fashion that he did _not_ take her for granted and _did_ love her.

Sydney already knew what answer she was going to give to his Question when he asked it, but she didn’t want to spoil the moment by allowing her lowercase-q question to remain unanswered. She loved him; there was _no_ question in her mind about that. He loved her. He loved her enough to tell the whole nation. He made her happy. She felt joy at making _him_ happy. He had experienced love again, and she had experienced love at last, because of what they had together. No, none of those things were her unanswered question.

_Four years, and then what?_

Actually, that wasn’t really her question either, she mused. Her question was broader than that—and yet narrower at the same time. _He_ would always be a towering global figure. He would have his presidential library and start a philanthropic foundation dedicated to a special cause.

 _What will_ I _do? And not just then. What about_ now?

Her ambition had been to be the director of a national political campaign. That was never going to happen now, and she recognized it. Whether she married him made no difference; it was not going to happen. The title of First Lady, current or former, had too much dignity for its holder to be a mere campaign manager, directing the pitching of mud for someone else. And an ex-lobbyist ex-girlfriend of a President did not have _enough_ dignity for that. No, that particular ambition was dust now.

It was harder to let go of it than it should have been. Influencing policy and politics from behind the scenes was always her plan. She had never particularly wanted to be the one taking the oath of office. Too much visibility. It was all she could do not to laugh out loud, _definitely_ distracting him from his reading, as _that_ thought passed through her mind. Another cloud of dust, the hope of being invisible.

She would still get to influence policy from behind the scenes. She would have a project of her own, either education or environmental. She would, in fact, have immense influence on executive policy. The detractors of their relationship were absolutely correct about that. Andrew Shepherd was not the sort of man who would dismiss his wife to being some Victorian version of a First Lady, a mere society hostess and pretty ornament on his arm at state events. She hadn’t even been _that_ at the state dinner with the French president. He had picked her for their first date for her spirit and intellect, not to be a demurely smiling pretty face. _Bob Rumson would, though,_ she thought sourly, instantly banishing the thought of their self-righteous troglodyte opponent with a woman as soon as it entered her head. That was _not_ a pretty picture.

She would get to influence policy, and it would be from a much more dignified position than that of a hired gun. Instead she would be the President’s chosen partner, even more so than the chief of staff, the top advisor, even the Vice President. That was nice.

And _that,_ she realized, was at last getting to the heart of what her remaining question was. By accepting him, she would be forever linking her future work with his. The philanthropic foundation he would found in— _let’s hope—_ four or five years, the presidential library, all of those things would be _theirs,_ of course. He was that type of man. They wouldn’t be just _his,_ but they also wouldn’t be _hers._ There probably would never be anything that was just hers now. Even her project, whatever it turned out to be, would be something she did through her position—which was inherently, inextricably linked with his.

Even her name. For she knew what she would have to do for _that_ too. It wasn’t that she objected to sharing his name, because she didn’t. It was another indicator of being part of a family—a comparatively unimportant one, yes, but still a nice detail. Still, it seemed unfair that she wouldn’t really have a choice in the matter. Other women got a choice. They wouldn’t have to base this most personal decision, that of their own identity, on anything but personal feelings. They wouldn’t have to worry about complete outsiders tutting at them and questioning their devotion to their married families if they elected to keep their birth names, even if they did so because they had established professional identities already under those names. _Well,_ she corrected herself in thought, _that could happen, but it wouldn’t have the consequences for them that it would for us._

Sydney’s professional identity would always be tied with his.

She thought of the First Ladies of the modern era. Some of them had been quite involved in issues and national affairs. Rosalynn Carter, Betty Ford, Lady Bird Johnson… they had made names for themselves, certainly. Had they forged their _own_ paths? That was a matter for the historians to debate. When Sydney thought of them, however, she thought of them first as the wives of presidents and _then_ thought of their activism in that position and afterwards. Probably that was unfair, but the position of President cast _such_ a towering, immense, _monumental_ shadow—and all of them had been men so far—that it was hard for anyone so closely linked with a President to forge a truly independent path.

There was Eleanor Roosevelt. _She_ was one lady of whom Sydney thought first as a global leader. _She_ had forged a strong, distinct, highly influential path for herself after leaving office… but wait… “leaving office,” oh dear, the circumstances of that were very different for her….

Instinctively, as if to ward off that terrible thought, Sydney moved closer to Andy and leaned her head against his side. He glanced up from his paper, smiled at her, and set the document down on the coffee table next to the sofa.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been neglecting you. Should have had a staffer read this and give me a briefing. It’s what they’re for.”

She chuckled lightly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to see something for yourself instead of just getting someone else’s spin on it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That has to be—I don’t know, _heresy_ or something, coming from a lobbyist.”

“I suppose it would be that—if I were a lobbyist.”

He blanched, looking pained for a moment, even guilty. Reacting immediately, she planted a kiss on his cheek and stroked his hair.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she reassured him. “I just mean, I’m not anymore, am I?” She looked at him with a crooked, meaningful, knowing smile, not putting into words what she was sure he was thinking—what she was thinking about herself—because she did not want to _tell_ him now and spoil his moment when it came.

No. Their moment. It would be theirs. Everything would be theirs.

His eyes gleamed for a fraction of a second, radiating comprehension, but he too did not want to speak of it openly.

“I suppose you’re not,” he murmured, turning to his side to begin a rather deeper kiss. Amusement danced in his eyes again. “I did tell you once that you would never be alone in the room with me as one. Let alone—” They seized each other’s lips.

_I suppose not too. And that’s all right._

The question that had been nagging at her finally was answered.

**Author's Note:**

> In my headcanon, this is an alternate universe (from the real world, that is) in which the Clintons weren’t in office in the 1990s. Maybe they were out there, but they hadn’t come to power at this point. Also, this is the 1990s. I rather suspect that at the present time, a prospective First Lady could keep her original name if she wanted, and of course, there is now the example of Hillary Clinton as someone who did forge her own very distinct path. I’m not convinced that Sydney would go that route, though, since she never indicated that she wanted to run for office herself, but instead wanted to do things like lobbying and campaign management.


End file.
